Sonata No 221b in C Major for Two Violins
by NocturnoCulto
Summary: Sherlock and John are both students at the prestigious Händel's Royal Conservatory, a music school which takes the best musicians of Europe to train them for a brilliant future as professionals; but while Sherlock struggles are non-existent, John finds it difficult to adapt his personality to the rigid world of classical music. Loosely based on the anime Nodame Cantabile.


"What are you doing here, kid?"

The blue-eyed boy raised his head and looked at the man towering him, but didn't say a word.

"This is no place for kids," the man went on. "This is a rehearsal."

Despite being reproached, the kid's face was serious, and he seemed to be rather amused by the older man's ranting when a smirk appeared on his lips.

"If this had _indeed_ been a proper rehearsal," he said, "then you would have noticed that at least two of the violins are out of tune, and that one of the flutes was going fortissimo, not _forte_ when he played the second movement."

The man's stupor was hardly describable by words. He stayed still, his baton pointing at the child. _How can this kid know what was right and what was wrong?_ He thought, but didn't say it out loud, keeping his amazement to himself.

"Are you trying to teach me my job?" He asked instead.

The smile vanished from the kid's lips.

"Of course not, maestro Giulini. But can I stay through the rehearsal, please?"

"No," the man said, pushing the boy outside.

The door shut behind them.

"You can't stay because we are rehearsing for an important concert, and the orchestra needs not to be distracted, ok?"

The young boy reluctantly nodded.

"But I was right, wasn't I?"

The older man allowed himself a smile that softened his severe expression.

"Yes, you were."

The girl at the piano was on the brink of tears for the second time that morning. Her head was bowed, and her eyes were fixed on the white and black keys she had just played. She didn't dare to look up, knowing she was about to be scolded. Again.

"No, no, no. How many times do I have to tell you what to do, Molly? How many times? You can't go on playing in _this_ way. It's an _allegro risoluto_ , not a funeral. Don't you understand? Dvorak is surely turning over in his tomb. He did _not_ write this Sonatina the way you're playing it."

Molly's eyes filled with tears, but she fought them back.

"I'm doing my best, Sherlock, but you have to understand that _not_ everyone is as talented as you, got it?"

"Talent. How many times do I have to explain you that _talent_ ," he pouted, "is _nothing_ without practice?"

"I practiced!" she remarked, "I practiced more than I have in the last five years, just because _you_ asked me. But you are _never_ happy with how the others – _all_ of us – play. We are simply not good enough."

"You all are _not_ good enough."

This time Molly pressed violently her hands on the keyboard, and a noise of notes echoed through the room. She stood up, and looked directly into Sherlock's eyes, whose expression didn't show any sign of distress.

"Then do this alone!" she shouted and left the room slamming the door.

Sherlock stared at the closed door for a couple of seconds before focusing his attention back on the music sheets. His violin was still on his shoulder as if he had never stopped playing and Molly had never stormed off. He resumed from where they had left, the bow sliding slowly on the strings, the music coming out naturally from his instrument. What was all this fuss Molly had made? He couldn't understand. She had played it wrong, and he had simply pointed it out. Why was she upset then? Shouldn't she be glad that he could give her some suggestion on how to improve with the piano? He slight shook his head as the second stream of notes flowed out effortlessly.

He played it again, and again, still unsatisfied of the sound that was coming out. He had heard the same pièce played by the greatest virtuosi, and he felt he missed the ability to play it as Menuhin had done. That man was pure genius, and talent, and, as Einstein had so perfectly said, "a God in heaven". He had to practice more, he had to do it as he wanted to, no matter what Molly or _all the others_ thought. He was not going to play a sloppy Sonatina.

Two hours later small crystal drops studded Sherlock's forehead, his breath was uneven, and his shirt was wrinkled as if he had physically fought with someone. He let out a satisfactory sigh. He had eventually managed to make it sound as it should. It was not _perfect_ , but it was already a giant leap from when he had started.

However, the Molly-problem was still there. She hadn't rehearsed – _obviously_ – with him, so she was still well behind what her ideal level should have been. She wasn't bad. She had some talent – that's why Sherlock had chosen her, well, also because no one else wanted to have anything to do with Sherlock while she had seemed enthusiastic about working with him. Then why was she so stubborn? Now he had to find a way to get her back on track.

He put his violin away and left the practice room. As he stepped in the corridor, a more than familiar figure greeted him with a smile on crimson red lips.

"I knew you were still here!"

"Hello, Irene," he said flatly.

"Oh, don't make that face, Sherlock. I know you're happy to see me."

"As I'd be happy to have someone pointing a gun at me. Actually, that would be more thrilling."

"I see your manners haven't changed a bit."

"Sadly, yours too."

"Was that Dvorak's Sonatina op. 100?"

Sherlock barely assented, worried about what Irene wanted from him. Usually nothing he was glad to do. Or, worse, nothing that he was _willing_ to do.

"I wish I could play like you," she feigned a sigh of admiration.

"Yes, yes. And what is all this flattery about, uh?"

"Why, can't I just want to see how my ex-boyfriend is doing?"

"I have _never_ been your boyfriend, Irene. We both very well know that. So, tell me what you want and just go away."

"You're _so_ cruel, Sherlock."

Hearing Irene saying that _he_ was cruel, when she was – with a certain degree of certainty – one of the cruellest person he knew he couldn't do anything but laugh. Yes, he could not be considered one of the best souls in the world, and yes he was, to put it mildly, a pain in the ass. But at least he didn't blackmail people after having sex with them. And he didn't spend his time trying to find new ways of acquiring more power.

"Sure, cruel. So, we're still at square one: what do you need?"

"A favour," Irene finally admitted – not that Sherlock had had any doubt.

"Which kind of favour?"

"I _may_ have messed something up."

"You _always_ mess something up. Just spit it out. I practiced for four hours and I am _tired_. And bloody annoyed that you're still beating around the bush without going straight to the point."

"I have left my mobile in the room of… _a person_ , and I can't retrieve it."

"And you need my help for this?"

"I am not a picklock."

"Well, neither am I."

"Oh, Sherlock. _Please_."

He stared at Irene's blue eyes which glimmered with expectancy. After all, Irene was possibly the only person who could cope with him without getting burnt. Or without wanting to murder him every other second. Possibly, she was the only friend he had ever had. If their 'relationship' could be called 'friendship' at all. He doubted that, but sometimes he had believed it. Especially when Irene was the only one to spend hours on the phone with him when he had a _problem_.

"Ok. Right, I'll do it," he huffed.

Irene's smile widened. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a hint of red on his pale skin.

"Thank you," she softly whispered in his ear and put a strip of paper in Sherlock's pocket.

"It's alright. And I believe that you've just given me the room number."

She smirked.

"Good night, Sherlock. Sweet dreams."

"Yeah, good night Irene."

He waited for her to leave the building, then he resumed his travel to his room. Tomorrow he had to solve two problems: first, Molly. He needed her back. Without her the concert would never happen, and he was not going to miss that chance. He thought about winning her heart back, and he remembered Lestrade's words: _sometimes, Sherlock, sometimes all you need to do is apologise_. He still found it hard to understand what the timpani man had meant with it, but it always worked with Molly. So, apologising would be. Second, Irene's mobile. A promise was a promise. He took out the paper and looked at the room number. He recognised it as Janine's room. _God, Irene, why Janine_ , he thought. Of all human beings in that school, Janine was one of those Sherlock would have gladly sent back to the kindergarten. She was loud, noisy, and absolutely incapable of playing the _damn_ clarinet. However, her parents were powerful enough to have literally bought her admission. Now he understood why Irene wanted her mobile back. He sighed and threw himself onto the bed.

"I am tired, Greg. I am _really_ tired. Please, let's go home!"

"We haven't finished yet!" Greg – a muscular boy with already greying hair – shouted at his mate, raising the umpteenth pint. "We'll party till dawn! You've been accepted!"

The other guy – a blonde with an anonymous face that showed clear traces of tiredness – rolled his eyes. He had been touring all the pubs for the last five hours, drinking more beer than his body – and brain – could take. Actually, he was amazed he could still think properly, despite being clouded by the alcohol. He and Greg had been friends for ages, and he would have done anything for him, but now all he wanted was a warm bed and a night of sleep.

"Greg," he said, trying to fight against his heavy eyelids, "I'd be more than happy to party till dawn. But I am _bloody_ tired. I practiced eight hours a day for three weeks before the audition, and I just want to go _home_. In a fucking bed. I promise you we'll party again some other day, but please…"

He was almost begging. No, let the _almost_ out. He _was_ begging. But Greg didn't listen, so he was forced to drag him outside the pub. When on the kerb, he took a deep breath, the chilly air doing wonders to his brain.

"Should we get a taxi? Or do you know which bus to take?"

Since Greg didn't answer, he turned to him, just in time to see his friend's legs giving up. He threw himself at his friend and kept him upright.

"I think I'll hail a cab," he said, aware that Greg could certainly not be in the right state of mind to remember the bus number, and he didn't know the zone enough.

The cab arrived a few minutes later, minutes that had been spent in trying to help Greg. He started feeling unwell too as everything he had drunk eventually reached his head, making it pound heavily. It was a concerto for drums inside him, where his brain played the part of the bass drum. Each stroke became louder and louder as the taxi hurried amid the late night traffic.

"John?" Greg's voice was feeble when it came out from the man, who was now slouched on the backseat, "where are we going?"

"Home."

"But…we can't. We have to p…"

"Party, yes. But we'll do it another day. Now we need to rest."

"But I'm fine!"

Greg's shout made the cabby turn his head. John gave him his wordless apology.

"You are _not_ fine. And neither am I. I'm bloody devastated. And so are you."

Greg tried to open his eyes but ended up shutting them instead.

"See? You can't even stay awake."

"I can…" Greg slurred.

"Sh. Just sh," John said both to silence Greg and the noise in his head.

The rest of the journey home – Greg's home, the place John had stayed at the last two days – was spent in silence. Greg leaned his head on the window and was soon asleep. John looked outside. He was _finally_ in London. The real London, not that suburb he had lived in all his life that people erroneously called _London_ , when it was no more London than Paris. He was there despite his family, despite the money, despite people telling him what he should or shouldn't do. Against all odds, John Watson was there. He had made it. He smiled at his reflection.

His thoughts still went to the letter he had received three days earlier, the one that had told him he had been admitted at the Händel's Royal Conservatory. A privilege not many people had. A privilege he had worked hard for.

When they got home, and after dragging Greg on the stairs to his bedroom, he lay on his bed, clothes still on, and read it again:

 _Dear John Watson,_

 _We are proud to announce that your audition was successful and that you have been admitted at the Händel's Royal Conservatory starting this September._

 _The instrument of your choice was the violin, therefore remember that no exchanges between the courses are possible here._

 _Regards,_

 _William Powell_

John closed his eyes, squeezing the letter into his hand. He fell asleep soon after.


End file.
